Heather

Heather heaves out of the thick sludge, already screaming. She’s in the dingy bathtub of a hotel they visited when she was eight, the buzz-snap of its half-functional fluorescent as terrifying as ever. She’s covered in something and she hates it. She swipes at her face but it squishes into the corners of her eyes, her ears, into her hair. She tears with filthy nails and it’s sinking into her skin. Spongy. Can’t breathe. She digs in, pulls away chunks of face like soft rubber, keeps pulling, feeling warm water well out of the holes. Off, off, she wants it off–